


Somewhere warm, with a beach.

by AnotherAnon0



Series: Toxic [4]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Abuse, Beating, Blood and Injury, Dreams and Nightmares, Flashbacks, Hazing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Military, Self-Medication, Soviet Union, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:09:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23869549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: Prompted by Sergei's prodding, Nicholai reflects on his early years in the military.~I've never seen any second-year conscript fight like that." Sergeant Vladimir -- Sergei, he was called -- smirked, "It was impressive."Nicholai ignored him, nursing the flowering bruises on his arms with trembling, hovering palms. He could taste blood. It tasted awful. The bruises were getting darker and darker. He wanted them to turn into black holes and swallow everything around him."You were like a little fox in a pack of hungry wolves." The voice continued to assault the silence of the dark office. It was obtrusive. "A Siberian fox. A silver fox."
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/Sergei Vladimir
Series: Toxic [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1718308
Comments: 8
Kudos: 28





	Somewhere warm, with a beach.

**Author's Note:**

> From Part 3:
> 
> "Do you remember..." Sergei broke the silence, "when you were a dukh?"
> 
> 1979\. A lower-than-low tier conscript. 17-years old. Terrified. At the mercy of the senior soldiers, who so often liked to bully the new 'meat.' Of course Nicholai remembered. 
> 
> "Why are you reminiscing over such things?"

The couch was a better place to sleep than the bed. Nicholai had determined that a long time ago. 

It wasn't that his bed was uncomfortable. Far from it. But he hated the hole that had been designated a bedroom by his old apartment. A windowless pit of brick and plaster, blanketed in darkness even on the brightest of days. The living room had a wide, wood-paned window with a beautiful view of the Moscow cityscape, and Nicholai enjoyed dozing off to the glistening lights of the buildings outside, and waking up to the sunrise. 

Though the window's glass was as thin as paper, and the cold and sounds seeped in with no resistance -- he didn't mind. The noise especially was part of the orchestra of Moscow. At night, the occasional, distant siren would blare, causing his mind to run for possibilities as to what it was, where it was going. Alley dogs would bark at disturbances. Most recently, a drunken vagrant had taken to slurring through Soviet war anthems at the midnight hour every other day. Nicholai wondered if he had been a soldier, discharged after collapse. 

A yawn he could no longer suppress gasped his way past his lips, leading to a hiss and an angry curse. 

**"Shit!"**

Hesitant fingers rose to meet the jagged, red wound on the left side of his face. Tender prods demanded the cut stop throbbing, the sliced flesh reeling from the exaggerated facial movement. 

Sergei always gave him the nicest gifts. 

He hadn't heard from the other man since their last encounter, almost two weeks ago. He had disappeared once again with the same speed and haze he had reemerged from his eight-month radio silence with. His behaviour had been erratic, confusing, and very... _unlike_ him. He internally rolled his eyes to think he knew the man well enough to understand what was _like_ him. 

Nicholai had made an inquiry with old military contacts the previous week to see if he could get a handle on Sergei's whereabouts, but he was certain their answer was incorrect. 

Somewhere in Krasnodar Krai. The Caucasus. 

There was nothing there. Just old oil refineries idling on the Azov Sea. 

Nicholai shook his head, stretching out in the mess of throw pillows and blankets on the couch with a sigh. Wiggling into a comfortable position, he reached behind him to switch the lamp on the side table off, casting darkness over the room.

The hazy blue glow of the city evening wafted in through the window. Rattling and rummaging in the alley told him the drunkard must have been nearby. 

_"If trouble breaks out in the motherland! A soldier will soun..d the trumpet!"_ Glass shattered, a dog started to bark in the distance. " _The army is always on guard! You're my love and destiny_!"

Off key. Terrible. Comforting. Nicholai's eyes fluttered shut.

It must be midnight.

~

_"The only way you can redeem your pathetic existences is to serve your Mother!" The upbeat, high vibrational tone betrayed the cruelty of the words, "You are worthless. You are not even human. But if you serve your Mother, the world can forgive you of the burden of your lives!"_

_The young Sergeant had been holding the riding crop over his head like a torch, mimicking a kind of perverse Statue of Liberty as he gave his speech to the line of exhausted, morose-looking cadets. They were kneeling, heads bowed as he walked before them slowly, his leather boots clicking on the cement floor of the barracks._

_Suddenly, the clicking stopped, and the riding crop dropped. The end slipped its way under Nicholai's chin, forcing his head up._

_"Why is your jaw clenched, pig? Did you hear something you didn't like?"_

_"No, Sergeant Vladimir."_

_"Stand up."_

_Nicholai's knees had gone numb from having knelt on the hard floor for the last hour, and he feared his shaky legs would give out as he tried to rapidly respond to the order. Swallowing the pain, he assumed a formal position. Straight back, feet shoulder length apart, hands neatly folded behind his back._

_He was quickly inspected for form, the riding crop trailing the contour of his hip as though the Sergeant was determining whether or not he was sufficiently configured._

_"Did you agree with what I said?" The question was pointed, but quiet. The Sergeant's blue eyes sparkled with a smile, even if his lips were pursed. Somehow, he always made it seem like this wasn't torture. Like he hadn't just beaten one of the other conscripts unconscious, moments ago. Like his green-and-red uniform wasn't faintly stained with body fluids._

_"Yes, Sergeant Vladimir."_

_The riding crop slid up hid side, curving around his elbow, trailing to his shoulder._

_"Repeat it."_

_Nicholai took a deep breath. The air of the barrack basement was musty and damp. He could smell the scents of the other conscripts -- their tears, their sweat, even the acrid stench of urine from the few who had pissed themselves over the course of the night's abuses._

_The fluorescent light flickered overhead._

_"The only way I can redeem my pathetic existence is to serve my Mother. I am worthless. I am not human. But if I serve my Mother, the world can forgive me of the burden of my life." Nicholai exhaled. "Sir!"_

_The brown-haired Sergeant smiled widely, tucking the whip under his arm before issuing a few sarcastic claps, each of which was muffled by the leather of his gloves._

_"Good pig, Zinoviev. You can sit."_

~

Sleeping had been a bad idea. He realised that the moment he jutted awake, words unspoken for decades echoing throughout the room like they had been broadcasted through a loudspeaker just seconds before.

The greenish glow of the crappy bathroom lights reflected in the mirror the pebbles of sweat that had accumulated on his forehead. But like crystals, they just sat there -- too small and cold to drip down his pallor face. 

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Nicholai took a deep breath, silently cursing Sergei to the depths of hell for dredging up old memories.

The sink's tap screeched as he turned it on, running cool water as he sorted through the medicine cabinet, looking for those pills he swore he'd never use. The Veteran's office had given them to him upon discharge. A one-size fits all cure he hadn't asked for and didn't want -- consolation candies for the so-called honourably discharged the Government knew damn well would be at their wits end sooner or later. 

"Phenotropil..."

Nicholai slowly sounded out the name on the grey box, giving it a once-over before sliding out the foil blister-packet filled with neat rows of round, white pills. 

He hadn't listened to the monotone secretary who had slid him the box at the Veteran's office all those months ago when he went to pick up his last pay. He didn't know what the pills were for, how many to take, or when to take them. But hoping they would help with... whatever was happening to him, and guessing two would be adequate, he popped the pills out and tossed them into his dry mouth, leaning into the sink to take a drink of the running water. 

Rising to interrogate his sullen image once again, Nicholai scoffed at the apparition that was standing behind him, grinning at him stupidly through the mirror. He knew it was an illusion built from sleep deprivation and stress. The accompanying smell was absent. 

The tap squeaked shut. The drain gulped down the remaining water. 

"What the **fuck** are you doing in the Caucasus?"

~

_"I've never seen any second-year conscript fight like that." Sergeant Vladimir -- Sergei, he was called -- smirked, "It was impressive."_

_Nicholai ignored him, nursing the flowering bruises on his arms with trembling, hovering palms. He could taste blood. It tasted awful. The bruises were getting darker and darker. He wanted them to turn into black holes and swallow everything around him._

_"You were like a little fox in a pack of hungry wolves." The voice continued to assault the silence of the dark office. It was obtrusive. "A Siberian fox. A silver fox."_

_The Sergeant kicked his boots off the desk, letting them fall to the floor with a scrape. With a casual sigh, he rose from the wooden chair he had been seated at. One of his leather gloves squeaked along the desk's aluminium surface as he dragged it over, navigating himself to the other side with a few steps and a twist of his hip._

_"It was very metaphorical. The tiny creature fighting for its dignity against a huge obstacle and so on..." He trailed off._

_A long finger found its way under Nicholai's chin, scooping it up. Like a puppeteer, the Sergeant moved the younger man's head from side to side and began an assessment of the blood-caked face. The trampled nose. The fattened lips. The black eyes._

_"You should be proud of yourself." He said, wiping a piece of blood-mingled-drool that was making its way from the corner of Nicholai's mouth with his thumb. "They won't be out of the hospital for a while."_

_"Are you going to punish me?" The words were slurred, but still contained ample venom._

_The Sergeant sniffled a chuckle, rubbing the saliva between his fingers._

_"No, no."_

_"Well.. You should punish them!" Nicholai spat, unconcerned and unthankful for the elementary show of basic human decency from the other man. "They were-- they were trying to... to... Hurt me!"_

_Nicholai cast his eyes to the framed propaganda poster of Stalin that was leering at him from the corner of the small office, gritting his teeth as his Sergeant emitted a deep, bellowing laugh._

_"I think they were trying to fuck you, Zinoviev." A wisp of long, brown hair fell in front of the older man's blue eyes. With a flick of the head, the unruly strand moved back out of his line of vision. "And you stopped them. So what is the problem?"_

**_'Glory to the Motherland! Victory to her Military!'_ **

_Behind the desk, the heater clicked on. A hum of warm air began to circulate through the silence._

_"No problem." Nicholai muttered._

~

Cigarettes at unholy hours always tasted different. They tasted like they should -- disgusting. 

Nicholai knew reaching for the pack the moment he was woken from his fleeting slumber was a bad idea. That the taste would follow him for the rest of the day, making it hard to eat. But in that moment he didn't quite care, and kept taking deep, shaky, consistent drags of the blue-and-white filtered cigarette.

The red numbers were glaring at him abusively from where the radio was packed into the bookshelf. 

4:12 a.m.

A hand rose to rub his eyes, carefully avoiding the wound on the left side of his face.

Nicholai knew he'd be fucked for his job tonight -- a casual hit for the mafia he'd taken payment for in advance. A local progressive politician they wanted gone for campaigning a bit too hard on the issue of drug abuse in the city -- getting a bit too close to naming a name they didn't want uttered. 

Sergei hated that he was doing these jobs for "the _dregs."_ He had very narrowly dodged an extended rant from the man on _honour_ last time they saw each other. He wouldn't have tolerated it anyway. There is nothing honourable about using one's body as a weapon in any case, Sergei's fantasies about the _glory of war_ be damned. 

It was a means to an end. The end was money. For now, it was enough. 

Casting a glance out the window at the black skyline, Nicholai entertained a thought he'd often pushed out of his mind with haste.

Over the years, that thought had transmuted from 'leaving Moscow' to 'leaving Russia.' 

Collapsing back into the pillows and taking a long drag of the rapidly dwindling cigarette, Nicholai offered a moment to wonder where he'd go.

Somewhere warm. With a beach. 

He could almost hear Sergei now, condemning him for near-treachery. There are beaches in Russia, after all! Dzhubga has a beach! Sochi! Gelendzhik!

A small smile pulled at his lips as ashes began to rain down on his cheeks.

~

_He knew something was under his pillow. He could feel it, pressing through the thin fabric, jutting into his cheek._

_It was firm, but soft enough it was giving under the weight of his head._

_His eyes had been transfixed on the high-perched clock on the distant wall for hours -- waiting, listening. It was 4 a.m. The dozens of other men in the barracks dorm room were surely asleep now. Nicholai couldn't make out anymore under-cover whispers, tossing, or sighs of sleeplessness. Craning his neck to look past the bunk-beds to the monitor who was stationed at the very end of the room, Nicholai was confident the fat corporal was out-cold as well. His desk light was off, and his head was cocked back over the chair lazily. He looked like a dead walrus._

_Acting quickly, he lifted his head and grabbed the strange object under the pillow, slipping it under the covers and assessing its size with his two hands. It was about the size of a brick. Perhaps a bit wider. The delicate exterior was malleable -- some sort of paper. It made an odd rustling and crunching noise as he idly fiddled with it. He knew he had to take it somewhere to properly analyse it._

_Stuffing it under his light sleeping shirt, Nicholai carefully and quietly twisted on the small bunk-bed until his feet were against the cold floor. He didn't bother with his slippers, they would have made too much noise._

_Padding slowly and gently across the glistening tiles, he slipped past the watchman's desk, darting just around the corner of the hall into the nearby shower-room._

_He snatched the parcel out from under his shirt, grunting and squinting as his eyes adjusted to the assault by the fixed light. A bathing bench provided a spot to sit and interrogate the mysterious item, which he could now tell was wrapped in a brown paper not unlike that of a lunch bag._

_Rubbing his eyes into focus, Nicholai began to tear carefully at the paper, revealing the surface of a light-blue coloured box. It was made of a cardboard-like material, and had collapsed slightly where his head had been weighing it down for the last few hours. As he continued to tear away the brown paper, a small, white card slipped out._

_Nicholai watched the card float and flutter with amazement, dancing to the tiled floor like a snowflake. It landed with the scratchy words beaming up at him, messy Cyrillic signed with a chipper, poorly-drawn heart in the corner._

**_"Happy 19, Kolya!"_ **

_The box slipped open from the top, revealing an assortment of goodies Nicholai hadn't seen in what felt like ages. Two packs of cigarettes, chocolate bars, even a small, quarter pint bottle of vodka. All of it was invaluable in the barracks -- gold by any other name. Nicholai raised one of his hands to hover a tentative finger over the chocolate, as though it was an illusion._

_"I wish I could have gotten you more, but..."_

_Nicholai gasped, the box clamouring to the floor as his hands automatically jerked away from it, curling into his chest instinctively. Turning towards the voice, he tried to swallow the organs the thad lunged into his throat the moment before._

_Sergeant Vladimir was casually leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom, reaching for the cigarette that was between his smiling lips._

_A moment of unmoving silence passed between them, Nicholai clutching his chest in shock and confusion. His heart was beating faster than it ever had. It didn't help when the Sergeant began to stride towards him, cigarette dangling through a smirk. He got close. So close. Their eyes stuck to each other's for a short moment before the older man knelt down before him, calmly collecting the spilled contents of the box, sucking on his cigarette as he reorganised the small parcel at Nicholai's feet._

_"There." He stood effortlessly, the cigarette bouncing a bit as he spoke. Blowing smoke out of his nose, he prodded Nicholai's arm with the corner of the gift, "Take it."_

_Nicholai nodded, somehow unable to produce a sound, eyes darting to look anywhere but directly at his Sergeant again as he accepted the box._

_Sergeant Vladimir combed a hand through his long brown hair, smiling keenly at the younger man._

_"Why are you nervous?" He asked, "Where is my feisty silver fox?"_

_The younger man's lip cocked, eyes shooting an incredulous look at the Sergeant._

_Silence began to accumulate. It became clear an answer was actually expected._

_"Do you forget what you do to us dukhi? Or do you just not care?" Nicholai finally asked, realising the risks for asking the question were as great as not answering the one that had been posed to him._

_Sergeant Vladimir sighed, plucking the cigarette from his lips with a shake of his head._

_"Kolya..." It was the first time Nicholai had heard his nickname uttered aloud by another person. It made his heart skip a beat, though he wasn't sure why. "Do you think weakness is rewarded on the battlefield?" the Sergeant took a drag of the cigarette, turning on the heels of his boots to navigate to the nearby sink, using it like an ashtray._

_"These... pissants. These uptight Muscovites who come here." He exhaled, "They wouldn't last one minute outside of basic training."_

_Nicholai shook his head, "What happens here isn't training."_

_"It is!" The Sergeant spat angrily. That sparkle in his blue eyes was gone, replaced with a deep, dark burn. "Do you think war is so neat and tidy? Do you think cute training drills prepare you for a_ **real** _enemy?" He tossed his cigarette in the sink, turning and stalking up to Nicholai like a bear._

_The younger man's heart started beating in his throat again as the Sergeant got close. Closer. Too close. He could smell the cigarettes on his breath. He could see the red circles of sleep deprivation cascading under his eyes, carving out his pale skin. There was this... fragrance. Lemons. Neroli oil. It was wafting off of the wisps of hair that were swinging precariously close to Nicholai's face._

_"War is... Savage." He said, voice hushed. His voice bounced off of Nicholai's cheek. "You can't train for it. You have to **experience** it." _

_When the Sergeant slipped his lips over to Nicholai's ear, their cheekbones grazed. His voice fell to a whisper that tickled every muscle in the younger man's body. The hair was now resting over Nicholai's nose._

_"You survive better than most of them." He was smiling now, Nicholai could hear it somehow._

_What **is** that smell?_

_"You're special."_

_~_

The phone's ringing was an almost-offensive noise, slicing through the total silence of the apartment. 

Why would the phone be ringing at 5:32 a.m? His mafia contacts never communicated with him over the phone, nor did any of the illegitimate contracts he had picked up over the last few months. 

Nicholai grunted as he rose from the couch where he had been restlessly tossing and turning through memories he didn't consent to having.

The pills hadn't done anything, not even made him drowsy. If anything, they'd given him a headache and made his memories come harder and faster than they had before. He regretted the moment he had decided to take them, and swore he'd toss them in the trash the next time he went to the toilet. 

Slipping into the kitchen, Nicholai grabbed the blaring phone from the wall mid-ring, lifting it to his ear slowly. 

"Hello?" 

"Kolya!" The voice that blared through the static-filled connection was jovial, beaming.

"S... Sergei?" Nicholai stammered, his groggy voice springing to life. "What is going on? Are you in the Caucasus?" his question was accusatory, desperate for an answer. Any answer. 

"Oh, Kolya, I am happy you are there."

Nicholai scoffed, "As if I would be anywhere else at 5 in the _fucking_ morning -- Now **what** is going on?"

Sergei's excitement was practically vibrating through the phone, "Come to me, Kolya, I need your help."

**Author's Note:**

> First! The song the drunk vagrant outside of Nicholai's window was singing is called "My Army/Армия моя." It was written in 1970 by Aleksander Abramov, and it is a Soviet marching anthem. Fun fact, it was adopted in Iran for their military. No idea why.
> 
> This vignette/part of the story takes its inspiration from a very real issue.The Soviet and Russian militaries struggled (and still struggle) with a phenomenon known as "dedovshchina" -- the ritualistic hazing and abuse of junior conscripts by senior members. The abuse is so widespread and so horrific that anybody who can bribe their way out of conscription, does. It is said that only the poorest 10-20% of Russian men serve their conscription because they cannot afford to bribe their way out.
> 
> Dukh/Dukhi = Ghosts. The new conscripts are usually called this. As they survive and become older service members, they are called Dedy = grandfathers, and become responsible for perpetuating the cycle. 
> 
> Also: There are plenty of things in Krasnodar Krai. >_> But for the sake of artistic exploitation... I had to figure out where to place the Caucasus Umbrella facility that was revealed to exist in Umbrella Chronicles.


End file.
